I Wish You Happy: A Novel

by Kerry Anne King

  “I can tell you from experience,” Cole says, “that your death is going to cause him pain and misery that is never going to end. Believing otherwise makes killing yourself easier, but that thinking is a lie.”

  She doesn’t answer, but she’s listening. I can feel her listening, drinking in every one of his words.

  “If you kill yourself, he will always feel the pain of that, and guilt for it. As will Rae. And me,” he adds, after a pause. “I will always feel that I failed you.”

  “That’s not fair,” Katya says. “It’s my life. I’m not asking for any of you to feel guilty.”

  “Life’s not fair,” Cole counters. “Like it or not, that’s the way it works.”

  “But then Tom’s as trapped as I am. Tied to me forever. That can’t be right.”

  “Divorce is a slightly less drastic solution than suicide,” Cole says.

  “He’s Catholic. Divorce is . . . don’t say it. I know.” She sighs. “This is weird, but I never even thought about divorce as an option.”

  “Depression and despair twist up your thinking. If your reason for dying is truly so that he can be happy and have children, you’re much more likely to achieve that purpose by ending the relationship. Which, of course, doesn’t solve the problem of what does Katya do about Katya.”

  “You’re a scary guy,” she says. “You see too much.”

  He doesn’t answer that.

  Now that the weeping is over and her pain has eased, I suddenly feel self-conscious and out of place in Kat’s bed. I roll over and sit up, mopping my damp face with my sleeve.

  “Now what?” Kat asks.

  “No,” I say, before anybody can ask. “You can’t come home with me.”

  All three of us are surprised by my words, probably me more than the others.

  “Agreed,” Cole says, after a small silence. “I was thinking the crisis house, if you’re willing. It’s voluntary.”

  “Sounds more like the involuntary voluntary option to me.” A hint of her usual sarcasm creeps into her voice.

  “Agreed. Either you come voluntarily to the crisis house, or you go involuntarily to the hospital. Choice is yours.”

  “I thought there weren’t any beds.”

  “That was then; this is now. Pretty sure I can get you in somewhere in the state if I’m persistent and persuasive.”

  “All right,” Kat says. “Crisis house it is. Rae—”

  “I don’t hate you,” I say, before she can ask. “I just can’t . . .”

  “What, fix me?”

  “Make you happy.”

  “Nobody’s asking you to,” she says.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back home in an empty, kitten-free house, I drop into bed and sleep for twenty-four hours, waking up a couple of times to go to the bathroom, drink water, and eat a bowl of cereal before crashing again.

  When my eyes flutter open to daylight and I know I’m awake and going to stay that way, I don’t know where I am in time and space. And I don’t care. I just lie there, drifting a little. No heavy weight of responsibility or expectation. No dark shadows. No lurking anything. As long as I can keep my brain from thinking, everything is light and wonderful.

  The landline rings, and it all goes to hell in a handbasket. Where is the phone? Where am I? What day is it, what time is it, am I late for work, what’s happening with the kitten? My body feels stiff once I start trying to move it, my knees and elbows don’t want to bend, and my head feels full of cotton wool.

  I find the phone under the couch. It’s already stopped ringing, and the battery warning flashes at me when I try to see who called. About two minutes later I realize I’m still staring at it stupidly, and I get up and put it back in the cradle to charge. As I start the coffeepot I realize I’m starving. Not cereal-and-milk starving, but steak-and-potatoes-and-bread starving.

  There’s not much in the fridge, but I find a couple of eggs and some bread and settle for a fried-egg sandwich. Salt and flavor explode in my mouth, and I wolf the whole thing down and make another. By the time I’ve consumed two egg sandwiches and four cups of coffee, reality has settled in, and I’m able to make some basic decisions about what to do.

  I call in sick to work. This is not a good trend, but I can’t imagine, no matter how hard I try, managing the pace and the thousand and one little decisions I have to make during a single shift. If I am able to pick out clothes to wear today, I figure I’ll be doing great.

  I call the vet. Wish is doing well, they tell me. Much better than expected. He’s able to suckle from a bottle again. Plus, there’s a mama cat who has lost some kittens who might take him. Can I leave him for a little while longer?

  With Katya at the crisis house, the kitten at the vet, and no job to go to, I expect to feel footloose and fancy-free. Instead, I’m beset by a restless, unsettled meaninglessness. My skin feels itchy on the inside, and I catch myself pacing like a caged creature, door to window, into the bedroom and back again.

  Maybe I should go out. I could go to the grocery store, take a walk. Maybe even do something for myself like a haircut or a shopping trip in Spokane. But even a simple decision like whether or not to take a shower is too much for me.

  Every time I walk into the bathroom I see blood. It’s not really there, and the bathroom smells like bleach, not copper and salt, but my brain insists on holding on to what was, instead of what is. I also keep thinking I’m hearing kittens crying, enough to get me down on my knees looking under couch and chair, even under the vanity in the bathroom, when I know good and well there’s no living thing in this house with me, except for a couple of spiders.

  By noon, I’m wishing I had gone in to work. I feel like I’ve already been through a week of time, and I’m going to scream if I stay here another minute. When someone knocks at the door, I open it without even checking to see who’s there. At this point, I’d welcome a discussion of the LDS religion or even a solicitor. Anything to get me out of my own head.

  Cole is an infinite improvement on all of the above.

  “Hey,” he says, looking me over, from the top of my uncombed head down to my slippered feet. “I’m not even going to ask how you’re doing.”

  I don’t ask him to come in. Don’t do anything or say anything, just stand there, looking at him like he’s a well in the middle of the Sahara. He puts his hands on my shoulders and maneuvers me backward so he can close the door.

  His eyes rove over the house. The dishes in the sink, the pan still on the stove.

  “What you need,” he says, “is some fresh air and a change of perspective. Let me take you for a drive.”

  “Now?”

  “Maybe after a shower.”

  My hand wanders to my tangled hair. It feels tacky to the touch, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m wearing an oversized T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants that should have gone in the laundry days ago. “I’m sorry, I—” There aren’t any other words to follow this.

  “Let me guess,” he says. “You feel like your skin is about three sizes too small, and every time you try to think an anthill kicks over in your brain. There’s absolutely nothing in the world that you want to do, and you feel empty in the middle. About sum it up?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Standard response to a series of traumatic events, emotional overload, and not enough sleep. It’s normal.”

  “I keep seeing blood where there isn’t any.”

  “Also normal. Come on. Day’s a-wastin’.”

  “How’s Katya? Is she okay?”

  “Alive and in the crisis house. And that is the only thing I’m saying about her today.” He takes me by the shoulders from behind and starts walking me through the living room and toward the bathroom. A faint glimmer of an idea emerges through the fog. Both of us in the shower. Together.

  Water pouring over the contours of his muscular chest, down over his belly, running off his . . .

  I stumble over my own feet.

  “You are tired,” he says,
shoving me through the door and closing it between us.

  I am also an idiot. I strip out of my wilted clothes and stand under the hot water, indulging in fantasies about Cole that might be dangerous but also make me feel alive.

  When I emerge from the shower into a bathroom full of steam, I am caught on the horns of a dilemma. My discarded clothes lie on the floor like a molted skin. I don’t want to touch them, let alone put them back on. My clean clothes are in the bedroom.

  And there is a man in my living room. Not just any man. Cole. A man with eyes that light up every nerve ending of my body. A man who can get his mind around my love for a rat, who would stay up all night to help me save a kitten.

  A man who has repeatedly turned down any opportunity to have his way with me.

  In which case, there should be no problem with me walking across the living room wrapped in a towel. Women in movies do it all the time. Sometimes it turns into something. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s not like my life is some glamorous romance novel with a hero who is waiting outside the door to sweep me off my feet and pleasure me five times over before he even thinks about his own manly needs.

  My only alternative to the towel walk is asking him to bring me clothes. The idea of him in my bedroom, rooting through my drawers, my underwear, maybe finding my vibrator, is worse than the idea of me in a towel.

  I take a deep breath, wrap myself up well, and step out into the living room.

  Cole is at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. Good. Maybe he won’t even see me. I take a step toward the bedroom.

  He turns at the sound of the opening door, a sudsy bowl in his hands.

  “Oh God.” He says it like a prayer—whether of gratitude or deliver-me-from-evil or a plea for salvation, I can’t tell. His eyes burn, even from across the room. The bowl drips water onto the floor, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn around to put it away.

  The muscles in his throat contract as he swallows.

  “God, Rae, go put some clothes on. You’re killing me.”

  His words and the tone of his voice say two different things. I can feel the electricity between us. It’s cosmic, incandescent. The whole room lights up with it.

  “Or you could take yours off.” I smile and drop the towel.

  He closes his eyes. Swallows. Opens them again. Heat follows his gaze as it moves over my body like a physical caress, but he stays firmly planted by the sink.

  “That thing about not knowing what I want to do and feeling itchy in my skin? I figured out something I want.” If what I’m thinking keeps coming out of my mouth like this, I’m going to need to buy myself a muzzle.

  Cole shakes his head. “Sex comes in two varieties for me.” His voice is pitched low, almost a growl in his throat. “Casual and strings attached. It’s too late for casual with you.”

  “So I’m strings attached?”

  “So many strings. This is not a good idea, Rae.”

  “And you’re what—protecting me from myself? I’m a grown-up. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I need you to preserve me from my own sexual cravings.” Frustration gives my voice an edge.

  “It’s my strings I’m worried about. Just because I’m a man doesn’t mean I can indulge my desires without emotional fallout. I can’t . . .”

  Clearly, can’t is not the word he really means. I can see the bulge in his jeans now. There’s a spot of color in each cheek, and his breathing is harsh.

  “Not yet. Not today. Please.”

  It’s the first time he’s ever asked anything of me. Another long moment we stand there, eyes locked. I’m shivering with cold, desire, and something far beyond either. Finally, I turn without another word and walk into the bedroom to get dressed. My hands won’t stop shaking. I have no clue what I’m feeling.

  Embarrassment? I ask myself. Shame? Rejection?

  To my surprise, none of these labels resonates. I’ve just offered myself to a man. Stood there naked and asked him for sex, and he’s turned me down. These would be the reasonable emotions. But as I pull on a pair of clean jeans and a T-shirt, I realize that what I feel is cleansed. Exhilarated. Energized.

  Alive.

  The back of Cole’s truck is loaded with supplies. A cooler. Blankets. A backpack.

  “Are we going on an expedition?”

  “I always carry this stuff with me. You never know when disaster will strike.”

  “Oh my God, you’re a prepper.”

  He laughs, the tension easing from his jaw, the atmosphere downgrading from dynamite charge to a pleasant buzz of electricity.

  “Nah, I’m kidding. The cooler would be useless during the zombie apocalypse. I have a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mind if we stop by the vet’s and check in on Wish?”

  Since he’s already pulling into the parking lot, my approval is only a formality.

  Mel, the receptionist, lights up at the sight of me. “He’s so cute,” she gushes, all smiles.

  I assume she’s talking about the kitten with the cute comment, although the way she eyes Cole gives her words a double meaning.

  “And he’s doing awesome. Perfect timing. Come see.”

  She disappears through the back of the reception area, and I grab Cole’s hand and lead him through the door, past the treatment rooms, and into the boarding area. In a comfortable kennel a mother cat lies on her side, nursing a row of five kittens. She’s a Himalayan, a big, long-haired seal point. Four of the kittens are miniature versions of the mother. The fifth is a small gray tabby.

  “Owner brought mama and all the kittens in this morning for boarding,” Mel says. “Family emergency. We told him about Wish, and he said, ‘Sure, why not?’ Mama cat took right to him, and so far the other kittens are accepting him fine.”

  “What happens when the cats all go home?” Cole asks.

  Mel shoots him a mischievous grin. “One bridge at a time.”

  “What she means,” I say, “is that the man loves his cat, and by the time he gets back from vacation, mama cat will be very offended at the idea of leaving one of her kittens behind. Wish will be a permanent addition to the litter.”

  “Even if he pitches a fit—and he won’t—a week of mama cat attention will do wonders for the little guy.” Mel pats the top of the kennel affectionately. A buzzer sounds in the background.

  “Customers,” she says. “Guess I’d better get that.”

  Cole curves his hand around mine as we walk, linking us together, Cole-and-Rae. It’s companionable and warm and new. It’s not that I haven’t dated or had sexual liaisons and even, once, a friend with benefits. I’ve just never progressed to this level of comfortable intimacy.

  Trust, maybe, would be the word I’m after.

  In the truck, Cole puts the keys in the ignition, but then just sits there, staring straight ahead.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “For what?” I’m genuinely bewildered. He brought me here. Came to check on me. Stayed up all night taking care of a tiny, unwanted feline.

  “I see people at their worst. Hurt, angry. Hopeless. Sometimes I start to see the world that way. And then you come along, with your wishes and kittens . . .”

  “Small, inconsequential things in the grand scheme. I can’t wrap my mind around bigger issues.”

  “Maybe the small things aren’t so inconsequential after all,” he says. “Has it occurred to you that maybe that’s what matters? If everybody was dialed in to caring for small lives, maybe the bigger things would take care of themselves.”

  The moment is too serious. My heart is tap-dancing in my chest again. “Hobbits,” I tell him.

  He blinks. “Pardon?”

  “Like Gandalf said. What matters, really, is the hobbits. That’s what all of the big important people are fighting for.”

  Cole snort-laughs, then leans over, out of the blue, and kisses me. This time it’s no light brush of lips. It’s not a reassuring kiss or a good-night kiss or even an exploratory one. His lip
s mold to mine as if we are each one of a pair, designed to fit together. He tastes a little bit like coffee but mostly just like Cole. All of me rises to meet his lips, my insides and my outsides and the secret, reserved Rae self that never shows itself to anybody.

  A dog barks, and then a terrible screeching sound breaks us apart.

  My eyes open on a dog nose pressed against the driver’s-side window. Frenzied barking, nails scratching the paint, his frantic owner pulling on the leash.

  “Sorry,” she calls, tugging at the dog. “Bandit, get down. Come here.”

  She’s just a kid, thin and wiry. Probably traumatized for life by the sight of old people kissing and then having her dog go berserk in the parking lot. A scowling man rounds the front of the pickup truck parked next to us. He takes the leash from the girl’s hands, utters a harsh rebuke to the dog, who immediately responds to the voice of authority, and the three of them disappear into the clinic.

  Cole starts laughing, a big, booming laugh that throws him back against his seat, turns his face red, and brings tears into his eyes.

  It takes about ten seconds before I’m laughing, too, both of us hysterical.

  “See what you’re doing to me?” He sobers up and wipes his eyes. “Last time I kissed a girl in a public place I was sixteen.”

  He starts the engine and backs out of the parking lot.

  “Where are we going?”

  “That, my little hobbit, is a bit of a surprise.”

  “Hobbits have hairy toes.”

  “I’ve never seen your toes. You might well be a hobbit, for all I know.”

  My hands fly to my mouth to stifle a giggle. I’ve never been a giggly sort of a girl. Not that I don’t have a sense of humor, it just tends to be on the dry side. My mood has shifted to flighty and exuberant.

  “I am fond of snacks. And presents. Seriously. Where are we going?”

  “To visit somebody.”

  “Is there a wizard involved?” I keep my tone light, but inside I’m more than half-serious. Visit is a wet blanket of a word. Exhilaration gives way to apprehension. How many mood shifts is this for one day? I’m like a north country spring, changing weather every fifteen minutes.